


In the Still of the Night

by legendarytobes



Series: lucifer bingo 2019 [4]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Between Season 3 and 4, Chloe KNOWS, F/M, post 3.24 Devil of My Word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-13 04:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19593211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendarytobes/pseuds/legendarytobes
Summary: After his devil face reveal, both Chloe and Lucifer have thinking to do.





	In the Still of the Night

**In the Still of the Night**

_For the Lucifer Bingo Prompt of “epiphany”_

She can’t sleep.

She wants to sleep; she needs to sleep. Chloe knows that eventually she’ll crash without it. Even with a trip across the Atlantic Ocean and to another continent, even with her daughter sleeping in the other room and the promises to do Disneyland Paris in the morning, Chloe can’t sleep. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees the loft. There was Pierce’s body and Lucifer standing over it. And that had been a shock but a logical, defensible conclusion to dealing with a man who’d tried to kill them both, who would have succeeded if Lucifer were merely human.

But that wasn’t a revelation. Pierce’s death was an eventuality, something that had to happen the minute he shot her. And she couldn’t even process that either. She thought he’d loved her---knew now she never had cared about him---but she had always thought Pierce cared about her.

  
Then a bullet proof vest and a lucky few inches had been the only things to save her.

But she hadn’t expected the sight that greeted her when she rushed down the stairs. Even if her mind had almost known, had fit pieces together, even if she’d figured there really was one answer for being on the roof in an instant and safe…it was one thing to know. It was completely different to _see_ it.

Seeing the face of the Devil was different than realizing Lucifer had never lied about that part of himself, at least not in so many words. Some half-hysterical part of her mind that remembered old Saturdays spent unwinding with her dad and his cheesy movies was cackling, reminding her that _No one expects the Spanish Inquisition_.

Well, no one expects the Devil either, even after he tells you over and over exactly what he is.

Maybe _especially_ because he did.

When she tries to close her eyes, she sees it, over and over on a loop. She sees the eyes that burn because they’re made of Hellfire and aren’t just _like_ it. She sees the mass of scars that obscure his usually patrician features. She sees the deep fissures in the skin that have to be caused by burns, burns that could only come from one thing. She’s a lifelong atheist raised by a mom who was more into crystals and New Age crap than the Bible, but even she knows enough about Satan to know about the Fall, capital “F.”

The one that did a number on Lucifer, and left him scarred and burned, and of course that’s his true face. It always has been and whatever she sees---from those soft brown eyes that once in a great while dare to be vulnerable to the smirk that has seduced three-quarters of Los Angeles---has been the lie. Hasn’t it? Because there’s more than one way to lie, and it’s not always by word. Or even by omission. By this case it’s by what? Is this all some weird magic trick? Some prank on her by the Universe at large?

Lucifer Morningstar, who never hid anything about himself, even with whatever papers he bought to establish an identity and a record enough to buy property is the Devil, and she has no idea how to hide or what to do about it. She has no hope of understanding it or probably ever being able to sleep again. Because it’s not just that her partner’s a monster…possibly _the_ monster of all time.

That’s the tip of the iceberg in this epiphany. Because it’s all real: Heaven, Hell as well as God and angels (at least fallen ones). Crap, and his brother Amenadiel…so maybe even angels with the regular fluffy wings are real too.

  
Are unicorns? What about dragons or zombies? Is there a bottom now to anything in her world now that not only Satan’s real but she knows for a fact he tells bad puns, is incredibly immature, and eats Cool Ranch Puffs every chance he gets?

What is she supposed to do with any of that information? How is she supposed to fix it, to assimilate it? To get any rest?

She tosses again and doesn’t dare close her eyes, no matter how exhausted she is, how much bone weariness creeps into her bones. Maybe she needs to go somewhere else after Paris, maybe there’s a place with a hope of an answer. Because she’s scared but she’s not even sure what her feelings mean. Is she scared because the face of the Devil is haunting her dreams? Is she scared because it’s _all real_ , and she has no idea what to do with that. Should she go to church?

But she needs more information, piles of it, because deep down she also remembers everything he’s done for her from caring for Trixie—despite his seeming dislike of most children---to somehow, miraculously (or is it infernally) getting the antidote for her poison to getting shot while helping her stop Malcolm. None of it matches the Devil she’s heard about in bits and pieces even from Lucifer’s own lips. She knows what she’s seen, what’s been revealed to her, but she also knows what she feels, and they don’t match.

Chloe’s a detective, she can work the case. She just needs time and facts, maybe some witnesses. Rome will be a place to start because she has to go home to him. She’s not sure if she can even face Lucifer, if they can even be partners again. She’s certain that something more is off the table, at least for the foreseeable future and until her head stops spinning. Maybe ever, but she’s not sure the Prince of Darkness and Prince of Lies and whatever else people have called him over the years _is_ her Lucifer. At the same time, she’s not one hundred percent that _her_ so-called Lucifer existed at all.

  
But she has to find out.

She owes him that; she owes herself that too.

**

He can’t close his eyes. He wants to, but he hasn’t slept. He barely recovered the sleep he lost bloody well going insane, assuming he was the angel of San Bernardino. But it’s been three weeks. The three longest weeks of his life, and that includes the agonizing time after he feel and was a burnt mass of bones and flesh lying alone in a chasm of Hell until Maze discovered him.

And he’s taken her back because Linda convinced him. Because his crazy demon sometimes-bodyguard fought off a dozen men thinking she was saving Linda’s life. Because he’s alone again, and even if he’s been lucky with one human in his life, he realizes he won’t ever be again, and no one will understand him as well as Mazikeen does. Besides, he’s hardly human and grudges among demons don’t last. It’s too human for them.

Maybe they’re too human now.

But Lucifer understands better. He’s not human. He brought his own face back, if Amenadiel’s theory is correct, and he’s the one who cost himself everything. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? He knows he deserves his place in Hell, that he’s been a monster for eons, and that it’s fair the detective…that _Chloe_ saw all of him. He’d been running from himself, from his true nature, for three years. He’d been hoping for more because he could almost believe that she didn’t see him as a monster… _not to her…_ but she didn’t know.

That wasn’t the truth.

That was the epiphany to him, seeing her gasp at him and back away in wide-eyed terror. She collapsed on the stairs right in front of him and hadn’t been able to say anything other than the litany of “it’s all true” till he’d forced himself to normal (far too late). Then, the EMTs and cops had filtered in. Even as he gave his statement, he couldn’t stop feeling her eyes on him.

Couldn’t get away from the weight of the accusation in her eyes.

He’d shut himself off since then. While he played still for Lux---if one could call the same song on repeat a performance---he didn’t work for the police any longer. He would stop by the crime scenes, but without the detective there, his heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t…without _Chloe_ what was the bloody point?

And the longer she’s traveling, the longer he’s on leave, the more Lucifer---the Devil himself is afraid---but he is and the more he fears that she won’t come back, that he’ll never see her again. Maybe she’ll move to another part of the country, the world. Maybe she’ll start running from him and never stop, even though she should understand, should _know_ better that he’d never hurt her or her spawn.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it?

And he never lies except to himself. That he’s done so long and so well, and he didn’t even realize it. That one excuse after another was just another lie piled on top of the old ones. Yes, there was fear of Dad manipulating her and he did run to Vegas when they almost became a real item in part because of her miracle-status. And, yes, it would have been misleading to show her his sodding white wings, to let her think he was an angel still when he’s anything but. Yet, it would have been more than sufficient proof to explain he was once divine.

Now not so much.

But it was never about Dad’s games. No. It was about his own fear. Because, deep down, no matter how many crimes they solved, no matter how many long stakeouts or games of Monopoly, no matter how many soft touches or near kisses they’d shared. Hell, to say nothing of the precious few they’d actually had, and the memory of her lips on his burns him in these long moments in the dark where he can only brood.

He can never sleep.

But Lucifer always knew this reaction would come because she might be a miracle, but Chloe Jane Decker is also very human. And humans can’t process what he is. Most days, even after millennia to understand it, he can’t either. He hates his monstrous side, would banish it away forever if he ever could, but he can’t.

And he never will be able to.

Cause at the end of the day, the detective is a gift from God---whatever Dad’s game---and the best human he knows, so selfless and determined. So headstrong about stopping murder and defending the innocent, no matter the cost. A devoted mother, way too patient ex-wife, and good friend.

  
And he’s not.

Samael, the Poison of God, even before he was cast out. Now, the Beast that got his siblings eradicated from existence in the rebellion and the Devil that supposedly tempts all of humanity to give into their deepest and most evil desires.

They were never meant to be. Not even in the few, stolen moments where he allowed himself to hope.

And maybe that was Dad’s plan all along---to give him just the tiniest flicker of possibility and snuff it back out, to remind him exactly what he was and where he’d always belong.

Because epiphanies are the worst sodding things human beings ever invented, but he’s having one now, and he knows that even if he never lies, he rarely tells the full truth either. And that things can only stay buried for so long. Now, he’s lost her forever, something he’s more sure of as every day passes at a snail’s pace.

And in the night, all he has is the quiet ticking of his clock over the bar and his occasional breath. Oh, and the haunting litany he’ll never get out of his mind again, even if he lives till the end of time (a possibility, of course, and damn you too, Dad):

“It’s all true.”

Yes, it bloody well is _true_ , but it’s never going to be okay.


End file.
